Third of his Name
by ShanMah
Summary: The maester of Dragonstone brings dreaded news to queen Rhaella and her son, prince Viserys. A short, simple OS about a moment that forged Viserys' character.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or anything related to Game of Thrones, this is a non-profit fanfiction written only for fun, everything belongs to their rightful owners, blah-blah-blah, you know the song.

**Rating:** T

**Context:** Just a simple oneshot that popped into my mind and would not go away. I'm too busy with "The Lady of Flowers" to start a multi-chapters story, but who doesn't have time for a little OS?

**Third of his name**

The maester held the piece of parchment tight against his bony chest as he made his way to the throne room as fast as his old legs allowed him: he could scarcely believe the words brought by the raven, but could scarcely believe that it was forgery, either._Dark wings, dark words:_ the old saying had never been truer. His chain of office clacked and tinted as he walked down the stairs and through the corridors of Dragonstone, and when he reached his destination, he found the queen as he expected to find her, glancing at the horizon through the window.

She had wavy silvery hair that she wore loose, falling down her back and to her waist like a cascade of molten platinum: rested upon her soft hair was her crown, three golden dragons with rubies for their eyes. She was tall and slender, her face pleasing to look at, with its delicate features, high cheekbones, and pulpy pink lips. He noticed that she wore a black gown, indicating that she was still mourning for Rhaegar. The gown was loose around the waist, as her pregnancy had begun to show. _She is not done mourning, I'm afraid,_ he reflected. _How does one mourn for the death of a House? How does one cope?_ In her arms she held a boy of five years old, with the same hair and lilac eyes as her: his head was rested on his mother's shoulder as she held him against her hip.

"Your Grace," maester Niclas bowed respectfully, "We have received a raven from the capital."

Queen Rhaella turned her head towards the old man.

"News?" she said, "News from the war? Good news, I hope? Please, tell me."

The maester cleared his throat, laying his eyes on prince Viserys for a split second.

"Your Grace, if... if I may... the information is scarcely fit for the ears of a child... it would be better, I think, to send him to his chambers so that you may_ yourself_ tell him later-"

"Nonsense," Rhaella said, putting the prince down on the floor, her hand on his small shoulder. "My boy is strong enough to hear some words."

"As my queen commands. Your Grace, the... the..."

He hesitated. _How does one tell a queen that she is no more? How does one tell a woman of the ruin of her House and its dynasty?_

"The rebels have won," he managed to say, "Casterly Rock chose a side at long last, and they chose Robert Baratheon. Tywin Lannister and his armies sacked the city. The king is dead, murdered by Jaime Lannister."

The information seemed to hit queen Rhaella like a physical blow: not the death of her brother-husband, who had ever been cruel to her, but by the hands of _Jaime Lannister? _She remembered the young knight, courteous, polite, kind: he was always gentle to her, and she saw it in his eyes that the way Aerys treated her shocked him - and now that boy was guilty of regicide?

"What of... what of..."

"What of Elia and Rhaegar's children?" she wanted to ask, but she found herself unable to finish her sentence. Elia, princess Rhaenys and prince Aegon should have been here with them, rushed to Dragonstone's safety by ship as soon as Rhaegar had been defeated, but instead Aerys had chosen to keep them close in King's Landing to ensure that the Martells remained loyal to the royal cause.

"Princess Rhaenys and prince Aegon are dead," the maester said, "Butchered by Tywin Lannister's soldiers."

Viserys felt his mother's fingers dig in his shoulders.

"Princess Elia too," Niclas went on, "Unspeakable things done to her. Gregor Clegane murdered her and the boy."

_Unspeakable things._ She knew what it meant. _Poor thing, she should have been here with us, her and her children._ Queen Rhaella's free hand clutched on her stomach, and for a split second the old maester thought that she might retch. All colors seemed to have gone from her pretty face, and she turned her back on him: for a while he wondered why, but when he saw her shoulders moving he realized that the queen was weeping. _She does not want me to see,_ he realized as she took a few steps to put more distance between them, _Or she does not want her son to see._

"Mother?" Viserys asked with a small voice. "What will become of us?"

His words seemed to stir Rhaella: the maester saw her breathe in and out deeply, slowly, to regain her composure.

"Maester Niclas, gather the people here. The handmaidens, the soldiers, the servants in the kitchen, everyone."

"At once, Your Grace."

The old man quickly left the room, the parchment still in his hands. Once the maester was gone, the dowager queen was quick to wipe her tears: in five years she had never allowed her children to see her cry when Aerys hurt her, and she refused to show weakness to her son, even now.

"Come, my boy," she said, extending her hand.

The young prince took it, and followed his mother to the throne, a dragon carved in stone with onyx eyes.

"Sit," she told him, and the boy obeyed. "Straighten your back."

As he did as he was bid, Viserys' mother put her fingers under his chin.

"Keep your head high," the queen ordered. "Sit straightly, not stiffly."

She knelt beside him to put her eyes on his level, and she touched his cheek gently.

"Your father is gone," Rhaella said, "As is your brother, and his son, daughter, and wife. You and I are all that remains, and thus we must be even stronger to withstand the storm. Do you understand, Viserys?"

"Yes," the prince replied, although he was not certain he fully followed her.

"Three hundred years of Targaryen ruling rest upon your shoulders," his mother continued, "The blood of the dragon flows in your veins, you must never forget it. You must never forget who you are, where you came from, and what belongs to you. The dragons your father showed you, the kings I taught you, you must always remember. You must never forget what was done to us in this war. You understand, do you not, Viserys?"

The boy nodded, and she leaned in to kiss his forehead before standing up.

"So sit that throne," she said, "Sit that throne like you were born to it, and they will all kneel before you as they should."

It only took a few minutes for the first people to arrive in the room, and soon every single person in Dragonstone was gathered in the throne room: queen Rhaella stood next to Viserys, who was doing his best to sit on the throne "straightly, not stiffly".

"My husband is dead," she said with a clear voice, "Murdered by a man who was sworn to protect him. My firstborn son died bravely, fighting the rebels. The good princess Elia and her two innocent children have been massacred: I ask you, are the Targaryen days over?"

Queen Rhaella shook her head.

"Our days are not over," she continued, "Dynasties that lasts three hundred years do not end this easily. I present to you, in sight of the gods and the men, King Viserys of the House Targaryen, Third of his Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm."

And so the queen knelt in front of her son, removing the crown from her head to rest it upon Viserys' silvery hair. The crown was too large for his head, but she found a way to place it so it would not fall, and it was a queen consort's crown, hardly fit for a king, but they had no other crown at their disposal. This one would have to do. _This is why she wanted me to gather everyone,_maester Niclas realized. _She wanted as many people as possible to witness this coronation. She wanted to make a statement._The dowager queen stood up, and glanced at the small crown: none of them seemed to know how to react.

"Kneel," she ordered, a proud hand on Viserys' shoulder, "Kneel before my son, and your true king."

The maester, forever bound to serve, was the first to obey: servants and knights followed.

"Kneel," Rhaella repeated as they did as they were bid, "Kneel, and listen: can you not hear the usurper's wailing as the fire of the seven hells burns him for defying House Targaryen?"

_Usurper._ The word echoed in young Viserys' mind as he watched the kneeling crowd, his mother's golden crown heavy on his small head. _Yes, Usurper, this fits the man nicely,_ he decided. _This is mine. This throne, this castle. The Iron Throne, the Red Keep. Every mountain in the Vale, every grain of sand in Dorne, every bit of snow in the North, every field in the Reach - mine by birth_.

He glanced over to his mother to see whether or not he had done good, and she smiled proudly to him. _I will never forget, Mother,_he promised. _I will **never** forget, and I will get my throne back - for you, for Father, for Rhaegar, for Aegon, and every Targaryen before and after us - I will get it back with Fire and Blood._


End file.
